“Believe me, Princess. Fynn would be beside himself if you stayed.”
She let it slide that Amael had addressed her by title. “He’s barely spoken to me in days,” Sol reminded him. She pretended that her heart did not ache. “He’ll be glad to wash his hands of me.”
Amael’s laugh was bursting with amused disbelief. “Gods, both of you are so—so stupid. You really have no idea how wrong you are, do you?”
Taken aback, the rest of Sol’s orange wedge slipped between her fingers. Draven snatched it up and swallowed it whole. “Excuse me?”
“Ask him,” Amael said. “Ask Fynn if you can stay. See what he says.”
Sol shook her head. She brought her knees into her chest again. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” It was a simple question, and not the demand that she had expected.
“Because I’ve been lying to him,” Sol said. “He thinks I’m from Valestorm.”
Amael’s expression softened. “Fynn won’t care about that,” he told her. “It took months for me to tell him that I was Nero’s heir apparent, and all he did was clap me on the back and say, ‘thanks for trusting me.’”
She dropped her chin to her knee. “I think this might be different,” she said. “You didn’t kiss him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“True,” Sol grumbled, jealousy pinging through her. “It seems to me he kisses everyone.”
The boatswain chuckled and sucked on another piece of orange. “Not everyone,” he said. “He’s actually quite picky. Which is why you should ask him if you can stay.”
“And if he says no?”
“He won’t,” Amael sighed. “But if he did, I’d kick his ass all the way to Nedros.”
The Captain was still at the helm, leaning against the wheel. A sort of peace had settled over Fynn since the last time Sol had studied him, his head tipped back and eyes shut against the sun. His hair was down, billowing in a light breeze like the sails of his ship, a breeze that did not extend to the deck.
“What’s he doing?” Sol inquired.
Amael glanced at Fynn and scoffed. “Sunning himself, probably.”
She took a breath, one that had Amael turning to look at her. “I should talk to him.”
“You should,” he agreed. “He has a right to know who you are, and I truly think you should ask him if you can stay. Do you want me to come with you?”
Sol shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s best if I do it alone.”
Amael patted her leg. “I’ll be right here if you need me, but I think you’ll be just fine. Fynn is harmless.”
Another breath, and the Princess was on her feet.
One foot before the other, one step after the next, like crossing the gangplank onto an enemy ship. But these steps were far more damning than tumbling into the sea below, and Sol did not ascend the quarterdeck stairs when she reached them. “Fynn?” she called instead, a tremor in her voice that she cursed for slipping through.
A moment passed, and then the Captain was leaning over the banister. Fynn raised an eyebrow at her. “Sol,” he greeted, as if he were surprised to see her. “What’s the matter?”
“I…” She glanced over her shoulder to Amael, who raised his thumb in encouragement. Sol glared at him. “Can I talk to you?”
Fynn frowned, striding for the quarterdeck stairs. “Of course,” he said. “Up here, or in the cabin?”
Sol wrung her hands together, twisting her fingers until she feared they might break. “In the cabin,” she told him. “It’s…it’s important. And private.”
He took the stairs two at a time. “Gracia,” he shouted. The helmswoman dropped the old line of rope she was dragging over the planks, Indyr hopping after her and trying to catch the tattered end. Fynn winced. “Take the helm. I’ll be in my cabin.”
Huffing her disappointment, Gracia dipped her chin and grumbled, “Aye, Captain.”
Fynn rolled his eyes, motioning to his cabin door and ushering Sol inside. “After you,” he said. “Judging by that mortified look on your face, I assume this’ll be a while. Make yourself comfortable.”
Sol ducked beneath the threshold and into the Captain’s quarters. Her hands shook as she sat on the edge of his bed, and suddenly she regretted not having Amael join them.
Fynn closed and locked the door. “You look like you’re going to vomit,” he noted, though not without concern. Fynn leaned against the edge of his desk, his palms pressing into the wood. “What did you need to talk about?”
“I…” Sol’s stomach hollowed out, twisting up inside of her as the apple and orange she’d shared with Amael threatened to make a reappearance. She flushed, the Magic beneath her skin boiling like water in a cauldron, water that she could not control.
Fynn closed the space between them, dropping to his knees in front of Sol and taking her hands in his own. He gripped them until they stopped shaking. “I’ve seen you nervous,” he said quietly. “And I’ve even seen you scared. But this? This is terrified. What’s going on?”
Panic crept up her spine. It coiled in her chest and buried itself deep into her marrow. This was a mistake. This was not why she’d come here. “I—I can’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
She tried to stand, to run, to evade.
Fynn’s hands were firm as he placed them on either shoulder, pushing her back down onto the bed. His voice was soft as he commanded, “Breathe.”
Sol shook her head, wondering what expression lingered across her face that drew such alarm on Fynn’s. “I can’t.”
“Stop,” he said. “Stop talking. Breathe. I don’t want to make you, but I will.”
She pushed through the tightness in her chest, sucking down air she knew was of Fynn’s creation. He would make her breathe if she didn’t, would force her lungs to expand. Sol did not want that—did not deserve that.
“Good,” Fynn encouraged. “Again.”
Sol whimpered and said, “You’ll hate me.”
Fynn’s brow creased as he met her frantic eyes, as he observed the tears beginning to gather along her lashes. “I sincerely doubt that,” he assured her calmly. “But breathe, and then tell me why you think otherwise.”
“I’m not who you think I am,” Sol continued, the words beginning to tumble from her mouth before she could stop them. It was not supposed to be like this. She was not supposed to be afraid, not of Fynn. “I’m not from Valestorm.”
He was not troubled by the confession. “All right,” Fynn said easily. “Breathe, and then tell me who you really are.”
She gasped in a breath, assisted by the Captain’s Magic as he smoothed his thumb over her knuckles. “You don’t understand,” she insisted. She tasted salt on her tongue. “I’ve been lying to you, Fynn. My name is Sol—Sol Rosebone.” She swallowed down another breath of air. “I’m the Princess of Sonamire.”
Fynn smiled grimly. “Yes,” he said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FYNN
Kneeling in front of Sol, Fynn pressed an old, dented metal cup into the palms of her shaking hands. Water laden with salt sloshed over the curled rim. “Drink,” he beckoned softly, closing her fingers around the bronze. “And then we’ll talk.”
He had not been expecting the confession, had assumed that Sol Rosebone would take her identity to her grave. But he had known something was wrong when she’d asked him to come down from the helm, insisting that they speak together in private. They did not often find themselves alone, but these days, on the rare occasion they did…
Fynn banished the thoughts that plagued him; now was not the time to dwell on it. It wasn’t that good of a godsdamned kiss, anyway, and neither he nor Sol had spoken of it since. Not that they had spoken much at all since she’d staged a mutiny and brought that thing onto his ship.
The Princess of Sonamire sipped at the water he had given her, eying Fynn warily as she drank. He had seen that look before, that same anxious uncertainty she’d
regarded him with all those weeks ago when the Captain had found her in Valestorm.
“How long have you known?” she asked eventually, handing the cup back to him when she was finished.
“Since we met,” he answered, setting it aside. Fynn crossed his legs beneath him. “Since I rescued you from that brute in the port. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
Sol’s intake of air was audible. “How?”
He did not need clarification. “Your hair,” he admitted. Sol absently touched the dyed curls that bounced against the curve of her neck. “And I fought in the war ten years ago. You look just like your brother, though I can honestly say I was surprised to learn you were a Water-Wielder. If you had any Magic at all, I expected your Element to be Fire.”
“Our mother was a Water-Wielder,” Sol explained. “Not a powerful one, but I inherited my abilities from her. Silas got Fire from our father.”
Fynn hummed his acknowledgement. “I take it the King doesn’t know you’re a Wielder?”
Sol shook her head. “Apart from your crew, the only person who knows is Silas. He made me promise to keep it to myself because our father would have recruited me for his army.” Her cheeks reddened. “He said I wouldn’t make a good soldier.”
“I can’t say I disagree,” Fynn mused, dodging the hand Sol flailed at him. He chuckled quietly as she settled, her lips pursed with a pout. “I’m sure it was an honest sentiment. He just wanted to keep you safe.”
Her shoulders caved in around her, and Sol dropped her gaze to the planks. She held out her hand in silent offering, resting it palm up against her knee. Fynn laced his fingers between her shaking ones. “It was Silas who sent me away.”
The Captain frowned. “Why?”
Sol’s breathing hitched, and those were tears gathering in her eyes again. “I can’t tell you.”
Fynn scooted closer. “Sol, look at me,” he whispered, tracing his thumb across the back of her hand. Sol lifted her eyes, but she did not quite meet his gaze. Fynn reckoned that would have to be good enough. “There is nothing you could ever say to me that would make me cast you out. That I wouldn’t try to understand. Your title doesn’t mean anything to me.”
As far as Fynn was concerned, titles meant nothing at all.
Sol sniffed. “This is different,” she insisted weakly. “You’ll—you’ll hate me.”
Rising back up onto his knees, Fynn took Sol’s chin between his index finger and thumb. He lifted her head up, and before those tears could once again spill down her cheeks, Fynn kissed her. “No,” he said against her mouth. “I won’t.”
A whimper cracked out of Sol, one that Fynn felt echo in his chest. She gripped the sides of his face, her bottom lip quivering as she kept him held against her. “Promise that you won’t send me away.”
Fynn held her back, his fingers twisting into the curls at the nape of her neck. “I promise.”
Her breath mingled with his own, a warm brush of air that roused the Magic in his veins. Sol brushed her thumb along his cheek, tracing over the scruff that darkened his jaw. “It wasn’t my choice,” she said. Her voice broke. “I didn’t know until the night Silas sent me away.”
Fynn repeated, “I promise.”
Sol swallowed audibly. “As a condition of the Treaty,” she began. “To secure the alliance between Sonamire and Dyn, my father promised my hand to Thane Grayclaw.”
His blood ran cold. “What?”
The Princess winced. “The marriage was meant to ensure the peace between our kingdoms.” Sol’s fingers dug gently into his cheeks. “I didn’t know, and neither did Silas. They were waiting until I turned eighteen, but my father wanted to send me a few weeks early so that I might get to know him before we married. But Silas snuck me out of the castle, and he had the Captain of the Royal Guard take me to Valestorm.”
Fynn untangled himself from Sol, sinking onto the floor and staring at her with shattered disbelief. “You’re engaged.”
Sol rubbed at her eyes, brushing away her tears with the sleeve of her tunic. “Not by choice.”
Stupid—it was so utterly stupid for Fynn to have allowed himself to get close to her. He did not care about her title, would never have cared that Sol was the Princess of Sonamire. But to be betrothed to the Crown Prince of Dyn, to the notorious Thane Grayclaw who killed innocent men for sport… Fynn was a dead man, a very dead man, if the bounty hunters ever caught up to him.
Sol’s voice cracked as she said, “I told you. I told you that you’d hate me if you knew.”
Fynn dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging on the ends as fear and frustration gripped him. “I don’t hate you,” he sighed. “I’m just—I need a minute.”
He needed a godsdamned lifetime, but he would have to make do with a minute.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Sol claimed. She picked at her fingernails, tearing at her cuticles until they bled and she healed them with her Magic. “Amael said you wouldn’t care, but—”
His eyes snapped to her face. “Amael knew?”
Sol nodded apprehensively, lifting her hand to further bite at her nails. “That night at the tavern in Arrowbrook, I left early.” Fynn didn’t need to ask why. “Amael followed me, and we argued, and I… I told him.”
The Captain blinked at her, his chest hollowing out at the betrayal. “You trusted Amael with this, but not me?”
Sol dropped her head into her hands. “I only told him so that he’d stop being so upset with me. He’d treated me like—like shit since the moment he found out I was a Wielder. I couldn’t take it anymore, and he was persistent.”
Fynn pushed himself onto his feet and took to pacing the cabin.
His Magic howled to be unleashed. An icy wind ripped through his quarters to sate it. “You’re the reason why the Dryuans were gone,” he said, the realization striking him with the force of a physical blow. “Amael wasn’t surprised to find them gone. Gutted, but not surprised, and I suppose that now I know why.”
Sol nodded and watched him carefully. “I didn’t show up in Dyn when I was supposed to,” she said. “Amael thinks that Caidem is preparing for war, that he called in the Dryuans to fight for him because my father didn’t keep his word.”
“Of course he did,” Fynn spat. “Because Caidem can’t fight his own battles.”
The Princess flinched at his tone. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You should have told me weeks ago!” Fynn cried. “I’ve always known that the bounty hunters were looking for you, Sol, but if you’d only told me why…” He rubbed at his temples, a dull ache beginning to build there. “I’d have never taken you into Arrowbrook. I’d have never let you leave this ship.”
Sol frowned at him. “I knew they were looking for me, but you said they were looking for you.”
“They are looking for me,” he replied. “And I’m worth my weight in gold. But you? You’re a far bigger prize than I am, especially if Thane is wanting to find you.”
Thane Grayclaw—Sol was betrothed to Thane Grayclaw. And of all the ships for the Princess of Sonamire to end up on, it was Fynn’s. He cursed the Gods for such luck.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “How far are we from Nedros?”
Fynn stopped his pacing to look at her. “Nearly three months, if the weather holds out.”
Her nostrils flared as she sniffled. “Is there somewhere else we can stop?”
“We’ll be in open waters for the next few weeks,” Fynn told her. “There are ports along the Taesean continent, but we’re not stopping until we reach Nedros.”
“Why not?” Sol inquired quietly. “You can drop me off, and I’ll—”
“I said I would take you to Nedros, and I will,” Fynn snapped, far more harshly than he’d intended. “This doesn’t change that. I won’t go back on my word.”
“I’m not holding you to your word,” Sol argued. “I’m asking you to drop me off—”
“I said no.”
Sol rose onto
her feet and met him in the middle of the cabin. She placed her hands on her hips, and Fynn would have laughed if that wasn’t such fierce determination flickering in her hazel eyes. “You and your crew are in danger,” she pointed out. “More than you realized. If you leave me in a port, you’ll be safe.”
“We’ve been in danger all this time,” Fynn quipped. “And you didn’t care.”
“Neither did you, if you’ve known who I was all along.”
Fynn gritted his teeth. “We’re not stopping until we reach Nedros,” he said. “End of discussion.”
“Why?” Sol demanded. “I’d be out of your hair—”
“Because I am not letting you leave until I’m ready to say goodbye.”
Sol straightened, her brow furrowing as she stared at him. “What?”
Fynn pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated himself for such a confession, one he had not admitted to even himself. “For Thymis’ sake, Sol, I don’t care about a godsdamned betrothal. I don’t care about Thane Grayclaw beyond what he could do to my crew if he ever finds you.”
“Then let me—”
Fynn threw his head back and groaned. “You are my crew now, Princess, and what Thane does to you, he does to all of us.”
Sol’s hands fell slack at her sides. “Oh.”
“Even if I left you in Nedros—in any port, really—you’d never be safe. The bounty hunters would find you eventually, and I wouldn’t be there to protect you.” Fynn yielded a step and sighed. “Everyone leaves me, Sol, usually because of Caidem and Thane, and they usually don’t do so willingly.”
A frown pulled at her mouth. Sol backed across the space between her and the Captain’s bed, sitting herself on the edge amongst the furs. “What do you mean?”
Fynn collapsed onto the planks at Sol’s feet. “Caidem murdered my mother,” he explained quietly. Sol’s gasp was audible, a sharp spike in her breathing that tugged at Fynn’s own lungs. “And Thane is who kicked the barrel from beneath Vasil’s feet when he was hung in a courtyard in Knamelle.”
“Who is Vasil?” Sol asked. “You’ve never told me.”
Sins of the Sea Page 22